


be as you’ve always been

by ruffaloon



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, a little bit of angst but it has a happy ending don't worry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-18
Updated: 2019-06-18
Packaged: 2020-05-13 23:50:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,496
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19261672
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruffaloon/pseuds/ruffaloon
Summary: Aziraphale abruptly reaches forward and places his pointer finger on the side of Crowley’s sunglasses. “You don’t need to wear these when we’re alone,” he says, as though it were the most sensible thing in the world. “You have beautiful eyes.”Just another fanfic about getting together after the Not-End-Of-The-World.





	be as you’ve always been

_Soho, London. Five years before the end of the world._

They’re a wine bottle deep, a stage that Crowley likes to refer to as pleasantly tipsy. Drunk enough to revel in how much they enjoy each other’s company, sober enough to refrain from any falling over or uncharacteristic yelling. The couch they’re sitting on is comfortable, as always, and Crowley can’t help but notice that the cushion on the left side- _his_ side- is much more sunken in than it was when the bookshop had just opened, most likely due to how often he’s sat in it. It’s tangible proof of his frequent visits. Well, that and the wine stain on the armrest that Aziraphale hasn’t noticed yet.

“And elephants- they’re more compassionate than humans most of the time-”

Crowley had watched another nature documentary. He realized how silly it was - watching something on television that he could easily magic over and see in person himself - but Crowley had never been one to put in extra effort when it could be avoided. Besides, the voice of David Attenborough soothes him.

“I really don’t think you’re giving the humans enough credit.”

This is a common occurrence. Crowley will say something pessimistic, Aziraphale will respond with something optimistic, one of them will eventually relent, and the cycle will begin again. It is quite possibly the best thing in both of their lives. Certainly the most enjoyable.

“Well, who are the ones tearing down the elephants’ natural habitat to build- to build- buildings, and whatever?”

Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and tips his wine glass forward in defeat. “Well, I suppose you’ve got me there.”

Crowley hums, satisfied.

“But they’re not all like that, I’m sure,” Aziraphale continues.

“Enough of them are _like that_ to ruin it for everyone else.”

“There are more good people than bad people,” Aziraphale states with the utmost confidence. Crowley would be inclined to believe him, if he didn’t know better.

“I don’t think so.” Crowley lunges forward suddenly, his wine sloshing around dangerously in his glass. “And you can’t possibly do anything about that, even if you start spreading your- your _ethereal love_ everywhere you go.”

“I _already_ spread my ethereal love everywhere I go,” Aziraphale says, and was that a trace of smugness present in his voice? Not very divine of him, but certainly Heavenly, if the other angels Crowley has interacted with are any indication. Either way, it makes Crowley’s heart swell with pride, and maybe just a touch of affection. More than a touch, probably. Actually, it was mostly affection he was feeling. Crowley’s lips form a fond smile without his permission. This causes Aziraphale to narrow his eyes in suspicion.

“Did I say something that you find amusing?” Aziraphale is straight-up _pouting_ now, and Crowley has to drag his eyes away from the angel’s lips. Thank Satan for sunglasses and their ability to mask the true trajectory of his gaze.

“Nah,” Crowley replies easily. “It’s nothing.” He grins despite himself, and takes another sip of his wine to try to disguise it.

Aziraphale must sense that Crowley truly means no ill will, because he accepts that answer with no further prodding. He sighs, seeming content.

“You know,” Aziraphale begins, and he repositions himself so he’s fully facing Crowley. The demon looks up at him expectantly from his lower, lounging position on the couch. Most of the time, Crowley’s slouching is an act he puts on to seem more relaxed than he actually is. Right now, however, he really is relaxed. Until Aziraphale abruptly reaches forward and places his pointer finger on the side of Crowley’s sunglasses. The action causes Crowley to immediately tense up.

“You don’t need to wear these when we’re alone,” Aziraphale says, as though it were the most sensible thing in the world. He gently removes Crowley’s sunglasses from his face without another word. It’s something he probably wouldn’t be bold enough to do while sober. Crowley lets him do it with no objections, a decision that also probably wouldn’t have taken place if he was sober.

“There we go,” Aziraphale murmurs, speaking in that soft way of his that makes Crowley melt. A smile emerges on Aziraphale’s face - not his fake smile that he uses when speaking to customers or other angels - a true one, one that reaches all the way to his eyes, and scrunches up his nose just a bit. “You have beautiful eyes.”

Crowley inhales too quickly, and his cheeks heat up as well. He hopes Aziraphale won’t notice, or if he does notice, will just blame it on the alcohol. Crowley hadn’t realized until now just how close they were - Aziraphale is looking down at him, his eyes sparkling in the low candlelight. The sight is so casually breathtaking that Crowley wants to frame it and put it in a museum, along with all the other times Aziraphale has managed to stun him over the years. A whole museum dedicated to one angel. Most famous sculptors were pretentious arseholes, but maybe they had a point when it came to certain angels being works of art.

 

The thing is, Crowley knows with absolute certainty that nothing about himself is beautiful. At least, nothing that really matters. He’s quite proud of how his hair looks today, and he knows that his pants accentuate his hips, but his personality? His soul? Not a trace of beauty to be found. And Crowley is never so sure of this as when he happens to catch a glimpse of his own eyes in his reflection - a physical reminder of his Fall. Proof he’s a demon. Confirmation of his inner ugliness.

But Aziraphale - Aziraphale sees beauty in everything, which, admittedly, is somewhat of a requirement of being an angel. But with Aziraphale it’s different. Because he means it. Other angels act all loving and virtuous on the outside, but sneer at anyone who doesn’t meet their extremely high, if not entirely unattainable, expectations. Aziraphale, though - he really believes in having an unlimited, all-inclusive appreciation for the world and everything in it. Including the wicked and unforgivable Crowley. The thought makes Crowley’s heart ache. It’s unfair, really. That he can love someone so much and know that he will never really deserve them. Kind of fitting for a demon, actually. Gotta admire the cruelty of it all.

The demon in question realizes that at some point his mouth had fallen open as if to say something, but he doesn’t know if it happened ten seconds ago or ten minutes ago. He’s also afraid that if he lets himself speak something horribly mushy might slip out. So instead he swallows hard, utterly trapped in the moment.

Aziraphale breaks the spell by turning to place the sunglasses on the coffee table, and Crowley finds that he can finally move again, so he grabs Aziraphale’s wrist and says, “Angel.”

The angel tilts his head to the side, waiting for Crowley to finish. “Yes, dear?”

 _I love you,_ Crowley thinks. _I would do anything for you._ He does not say this. He’s been resisting voicing these thoughts for nearly six thousand years now, and as a result, it’s become as natural as breathing. Well, breathing isn’t exactly natural to him, being a demon and all. But suppressing his emotions sure is.

“Those are expensssive,” he says instead, inwardly cursing- blessing- at himself for letting his guard down. His hand lets go of Aziraphale’s wrist and slides down to the angel’s fingers, where he takes back the sunglasses and puts them on again. Crowley can finally breathe. His walls are already building themselves back up.

“Really, it’s not like you bought them with actual money, anyway,” Aziraphale says, but it’s not unkind. Both Aziraphale and Crowley have a fondness for collecting human objects, after all, and right now both of them are surrounded by Aziraphale’s magnum opus.

“If I took away one of your rare books, you’d be singing a different tune.” It’s easy to slip back into the comfort of gentle teasing.

“As long as the tune isn’t from The Sound of Music,” Aziraphale rebukes, and the demon can’t help but bark out a laugh. The moment has passed, and Crowley can relax.

 

These are the types of moments that Crowley has experienced almost constantly throughout the Earth’s entire existence. Loving Aziraphale isn’t even something that he actively thinks about anymore - it’s just a fact of life, one of the great truths of the universe that one rarely dwells on due to the sheer overwhelming nature of its presence.

It wasn't always like that, of course. When he first realized what had happened he could think of nothing else for decades. It would be one thing if it were just some impure thoughts* \- but love as well? A demon falling in love with an angel? Bad. Bad bad bad.

Of course, Crowley never cared much about what Hell thought. And sitting in silence for eternity was something that he wasn’t too keen on doing. So he started doing things. Chivalrous things. _Nice_ things, even. Performing unsanctioned miracles. Showing up with gifts. Making sure the angel didn’t embarrass himself beyond all hope of recovery.

But Aziraphale... didn’t seem to notice. He didn’t understand what Crowley was really trying to offer him. And maybe… maybe it was better this way. Crowley can continue to subtly shower Aziraphale in affection, Aziraphale can continue to be completely oblivious to it, nothing changes, no one gets hurt. This is probably the best case scenario.

This is what Crowley needs to think. Because the alternative is too awful for him to bear - that Aziraphale does know what Crowley is doing, but he doesn’t feel the same way.

This is why Crowley could never say it out loud. Because if he does - if he brings it out into the open, forces Aziraphale to respond - and Aziraphale rejects him? Never speaks to him again? Crowley doesn’t know if he could survive it. And that fact terrifies him.

 

\---

 

_Mayfair, London. Three hours after the end of the world._

“You can stay at my place, if you like.”

The words had utterly shocked Aziraphale at the time, although the more he thinks about it, the more natural they seem. The real unnatural part of the whole encounter was Aziraphale’s own weak objections. Crowley had told him so many times that there were no sides anymore, and he was right, of course. But this realization that they are truly, completely on their own - well, it frightens Aziraphale more than he can ever say. Because what is he, if not an angel loyal to Heaven? If that part of his identity goes away, then what’s left?

He thought about it the entire bus ride to Crowley’s place, after he hesitantly agreed to stay over. He had nowhere else to go.

Aziraphale had always known three simple facts.

  1. He is an angel. An angel who loves the Earth, and books, and food, and Crowley. Of course he loves Crowley. You don’t spend 6,000 years interacting with someone in a typically pleasant manner without developing some positive feelings towards them.
  2. Crowley is a demon.
  3. Angels should not love demons, on the account of the whole hereditary enemies thing.*



These facts had guided him for almost as long as he could remember. But, now that he had, for lack of a better phrase, rebelled against Heaven in order to save the world with a demon - well. A new fact comes into view.

  1. Heaven already wants to murder you now, so they can go ahead and bugger off.



It was terrifying. Aziraphale had already done the absolute worst thing possible, which meant that he had nothing left to lose. He had the freedom to do whatever he wanted. And Aziraphale knew what he wanted. Because if you take being loyal to Heaven out of Aziraphale’s identity, you’re left with his ability to love. And be _in_ love.

It’s just difficult to casually bring up the fact that you’ve been in love with a demon for at least 80 years to the demon in question, is all. Even if you’re quite sure he loves you back.

 

This is what is now running through Aziraphale’s mind as he stands in Crowley’s flat for the first time. It feels so intimate, being here. Visiting was a line he had never allowed himself to cross before - meeting Crowley in parks and restaurants could be played off as a coincidence, and even the bookshop is technically a public space, but an apartment building? A place where Crowley spends his free time when he isn’t busy spreading ferment? It was too real, somehow. A confirmation that Crowley is a being with wants and needs, just like him.

Now that he’s here, though, his trepidation seems silly. The space is just an extension of Crowley.

“Your plants are quite lovely,” Aziraphale says, taking the time to truly examine them. It’s the first time he’s spoken in at least fifteen minutes. Crowley has been anxiously pacing the floor the entire time in silence.

“They better be. I put in too much effort for them to be anything less.”

“I wasn’t aware you were fond of gardening,” Aziraphale continues, truly surprised. “I would have gotten you something - a book on the subject, or some seeds-”

“That’s fine,” Crowley interrupts, and he comes to stop. “Look, are we going to talk about it?”

“About the plants?”

“ _No,_ angel. Not about the plants,” Crowley snaps, clearly exasperated. “About… our- situation, I guess you could call it.”

“Oh, right.” Aziraphale drags himself away from the plants to join Crowley in the living room. “Our situation.”

Crowley raises his eyebrows as if prompting Aziraphale to continue. The demon’s foot is tapping restlessly against the floor.

“...I’m sorry, what situation are we discussing exactly?”

“Oh, y’know.” Crowley immediately starts waving his hands around. “The “Our Respective Bosses Probably Want Us Dead” Situation.”

“Right. Well, it seems you were correct the whole time, Crowley. We really don’t have sides anymore.”

“ _Now_ he believes me,” Crowley scoffs to no one in particular.

“We don’t seem to have much of... anything, anymore, really.” Flashes of the bookshop cross Aziraphale’s mind. He hadn’t seen the fire, or the aftermath, and the thought of arriving at his home to find a pile of ash in its place makes him sick. It wasn’t just the books that made him love that place, although his collection was his crowning achievement. It was also - the familiarity of it, the warmth, the sense of true belonging it emitted which he never, not once, felt in Heaven.

It really hits him, then. He finds himself looking at the floor, clenching his hands into fists, taking one shaky breath after the other.

The incessant tapping of Crowley’s foot stops, replaced by the sound of footsteps approaching. A tentative hand places itself on Aziraphale’s shoulder.

“I’m sorry, Aziraphale. About the bookshop. And everything else, really. I’m sorry about all of it.”

It was like Crowley knew exactly what he was thinking. He probably did. Six thousand years is a long time to get acquainted with the inside of someone’s head.

“Oh, it’s alright,” Aziraphale says, voice trembling. He looks back up and attempts a smile. “We still have each other, after all.”

Aziraphale feels the hand tighten slightly on his shoulder. “Of course,” Crowley says, and his voice cracks on the second syllable.

Something deep in Aziraphale’s celestial makeup activates at the sound of Crowley in pain, and he has to resist the intense urge to pull the demon into his arms. Instead he smiles again, more reassuringly this time. And takes Crowley’s hand off his shoulder. And holds it in both of his own. His thumbs glide over Crowley’s knuckles. It’s the most intimate thing he’s ever allowed himself to do. Crowley’s breath catches in his throat.

Something changes between them in this moment. Perhaps it’s the weight of their centuries-old relationship suddenly falling on both their shoulders. They both feel it, and Aziraphale is just about ready to do something about it.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale says, and for the first time, he can hear the adoration in his own voice. Has he always been this obvious?

“...Yesss?”

Aziraphale’s hands release Crowley’s and approach the demon’s face, hovering on either side of his head, near the corners of his sunglasses. Close, but not touching.

“May I?” he asks softly, and Crowley gives an almost undetectable nod. He’s nervous. In fact, Aziraphale thinks that it’s possible that Crowley might be… scared. He feels it again, deep inside of him. The urge to take away all of Crowley’s suffering.

Aziraphale nods back, and gently takes off Crowley’s sunglasses, revealing the golden eyes that the demon takes such great pains to hide. They blink down at him, beneath two eyebrows that are knitted in worry.

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale breathes, suddenly overcome by just how vulnerable he looks at this moment. He allows himself to really place his hands on Crowley’s face now, his thumb lightly tracing one of Crowley’s cheekbones. “You really are beautiful.”

Aziraphale has always known this, even before he allowed himself to think of Crowley as anything other than an occasional acquaintance. He’s so sharp and angular, and Aziraphale always thought that this was interesting in contrast to the demon’s soft hair, his delicate frame. That’s what Crowley is, really - a walking contradiction. Harsh, but soft. Intimidating, but easy to talk to. Bitter, but brimming with hope. This is what made Crowley truly captivating. His very nature.

Crowley appears to melt at the compliment, leaning forward just a bit and closing his eyes tight.

“Aziraphale,” he practically whispers. His eyes flutter open. “Don’t- I- You-”

He cuts himself off and takes a deep breath, grounding himself in the moment. His hand then comes up to rest on top of Aziraphale’s own. Aziraphale looks up at him, never breaking eye contact. The demon’s eyes are wide and terrified.

“You must know,” Crowley manages to get out. “You _must_ know that I…”

“I do,” Aziraphale whispers back. “I know.”

And he does. He’s not sure exactly when he realized he knew. The 60s, probably, after he had acquired the holy water. When Crowley had been so grateful, and looked so disappointed when Aziraphale couldn't go with him. When Aziraphale had to leave the car before he succumbed to Crowley’s wishes solely because he wanted to see him smile again.

_You go too fast for me, Crowley._

Yes. He had known then. And he had known at the end of the world.

_Come up with something or I’ll never talk to you again._

Aziraphale knew then that he was definitely not as virtuous as he pretended to be. Because he knew that Crowley loved him. And he used that simple fact against him. And yes, it worked, but the idea that Aziraphale took something as pure as love and used it as a manipulation tactic made his stomach sick. He hopes he can make up for it. He _needs_ to make up for it.

Aziraphale pulls Crowley’s face down to his, resting their foreheads together. “I love you, too. I  _love_ you, Crowley.”

Crowley all but collapses, completely engulfing Aziraphale in a hug that is long overdue, his face tucked into the crook of the angel’s neck. Aziraphale finally gives into the fundamental piece of himself that demands that he hold Crowley as close as possible. He hugs him back with the urgency of someone who may never get the chance again, his hand automatically moving up to cradle Crowley’s head, his fingers tangling into his hair. The other hand rubs circles into Crowley’s back, and Crowley clings to him as if Aziraphale is his lifeline.

They stay like this for what feels like hours, drowning in each other.

Crowley suddenly disengages from the embrace, and now he’s the one holding Aziraphale’s face in his hands.

“You love me,” he says, and it sounds more like a statement than a question.

“Yes,” Aziraphale confirms anyway. “Of course. Quite intensely, I would say.”

“You love me,” Crowley repeats, but this time it’s to himself. He’s looking at the ground now, his eyes narrowing in thought.

“Crowley,” Aziraphale starts, but he doesn’t get to finish, because suddenly Crowley’s lips are on his own. Aziraphale’s hands shoot up to grab Crowley’s lapels, and Crowley takes that as an invitation to kiss him deeper, and they stumble backwards a few steps, and Aziraphale’s head is spinning out of control. They break apart after a few seconds, both of them panting and undignified.

“I’m sorry,” Crowley gasps, and neither of them move.

“No,” Aziraphale says, still catching his breath. He lets go of Crowley’s shirt and attempts to smooth down the fabric he had scrunched up. “Don’t be. In fact, I should be the one apologizing.”

Crowley tilts his head to the side quizzically, and releases Aziraphale’s face to rest his hands on the angel’s shoulders instead.

“For what?”

“I’m sorry for saying I would never talk to you again,” Aziraphale says first. He leans up on his tiptoes and places a kiss on Crowley's cheek.

“I’m sorry for knowing I was in love with you and not saying anything for seventy-eight years,” he says next, kissing the corner of Crowley's mouth.

“I’m sorry for knowing that you loved me too and doing nothing about it.” The other cheek.

“I’m sorry for… for making you wait so long.” This time he kisses Crowley fully on the lips. The demon goes weak at the knees, reciprocating eagerly, hungrily, his fingers gripping into the angel’s hips. He pulls away without warning, leaving Aziraphale breathless.

“You knew? About me? The whole time?” Crowley asks, as though he didn’t just turn Aziraphale into a flustered mess.

“Oh, not the whole time. 1967, I suppose, is when I started to think that maybe…”

“1967,” Crowley chuckles. He buries his face in Aziraphale’s shoulder. “Oh, angel, I’ve loved you for a lot longer than that.”

Aziraphale swallows nervously. “How long…?”

“Since the beginning, I think,” he mumbles, the words muffled by Aziraphale’s coat.

“The beginning…” Aziraphale repeats to himself. Realization dawns on his face, and he gently pushes Crowley back to a standing position so he can look him in the eyes.

“My dear, you don’t mean-”

“An angel who gave his God-gifted flaming sword to the humans, accidentally exposing them to the concept of violence in the process? How could I _not_ fall for you, honestly?”

“But that was- that was six thousand years ago.”

“Oh, really? Hadn’t noticed,” he says dryly.

“Six thousand years,” Aziraphale says again. “You waited six thousand years for me- Crowley, you’re practically a saint.” There’s a moment where they both digest the meaning of the words. Crowley’s face wrinkles up in disgust.

“Oh, absolutely horrible, angel,” the demon says.

“Oh, I’m quite sorry, I really don’t know what came over me.”

Crowley gives him a fond smile. “Seventy-eight years, you said?”

“1941. Berlin. When you saved the books,” Aziraphale explains. “Oh, and me. But the books… that’s what did it.”

“Hm.”

“I loved you before that, of course. Probably since at least the French Revolution.”

“I really am always getting you out of trouble, aren’t I?”

“Oh, Crowley,” Aziraphale sighs, resting his forehead against the taller man’s chest. “I’m afraid I’ve been quite an idiot.”

“Nah,” Crowley says softly. His thumb starts to gently caress the nape of Aziraphale’s neck.  “You were just scared.”

Aziraphale looks up at this, surprised by Crowley’s tenderness. The demon had every right to be angry. But he wasn’t. He mostly looked… tired.

Aziraphale kisses Crowley once more, impossibly soft and chaste. He could probably spend the rest of his life doing this, showering Crowley in affection, listening to him gasp, watching him blush. He could have been doing this all along, if he hadn’t been so afraid.

“How could I be afraid of this?” he whispers to himself.

“Well, humans do say that bosses ruin everything,” Crowley responds casually, pulling Aziraphale out of his head and back into reality.

“Like they could possibly know what it feels like to have bosses like ours.”

“Hey,” Crowley teases, a smile forming on his lips. “Give them some credit, angel. I’m sure there’s no shortage of horrible bosses in the world. Ours just have the ability to completely destroy us without any legal- or spiritual- repercussions.”

Aziraphale smiles despite himself, huffing out a small laugh. Leave it to Crowley to make him laugh at the concept of being erased from existence.

 _I’d be lost without him,_ he thinks.  _I’d be miserable, and scared, and I’d be lost._

“I don’t want this to go away,” the angel states, suddenly serious again. Six thousand years they’ve known each other, and now when Aziraphale has finally figured it out, they might die tomorrow. “I want… to- to be like this. With you. Forever.”

Crowley’s demeanor changes instantly. “I’ll protect you. I’ll never let anything happen to you. Not ever.”

He means it. Aziraphale can tell. And he wishes he could take his word for it - bury himself in the demon’s embrace, curl up there and never worry about anything again. But it’s not that easy.

“You can’t promise that.”

“I can,” Crowley says, determination shining in his eyes. “I’ve been thinking about Agnes’ last prophecy, right? And I have an idea.”

“An idea?”

No, it’s not that easy. If they were going to keep this, they were going to have to fight for it.

The demon nods, extends his hand. “Do you trust me?”

Aziraphale takes it without hesitation. “I do.”

He does. He knows, now, that he has more faith in Crowley than he’s ever had in Heaven. The realization takes a weight off of him. _Yes. This. This is what matters._

Unbeknownst to Aziraphale, Crowley is thinking the exact same thing.

Their fingers intertwine.

_This._

 

\---

 

It’s the day after the Apocalypse-That-Wasn’t. It’s evening, and an angel and demon are walking down the path of St. James’s Park, arm in arm, debating good-naturedly about the best thing on the menu at the Ritz.*

They had a plan, and against all odds, against what felt like the entire universe fighting against them, their plan had worked. The forces of Heaven and Hell were both fooled, or both simply too fed up to deal with them anymore. They were, for the foreseeable future, free.

It’s the first day of the rest of their lives, and they’re going to spend it together.

 

\---

 

[1] In fact, Hell would probably promote him for successfully tempting an angel into indulging in something a bit more erotic than food.

[2] Also, on the account of the whole “Heaven will murder you if they find out” thing.

[3] Aziraphale believes it’s the Amedei Chocolate Mousse. Crowley says it’s the Hay-Aged Bresse Duck, not because he really thinks so, but because he knows it will result in Aziraphale apologizing to the ducks floating on the lake who might have overheard.

 

**Author's Note:**

> this entire fanfic spawned from [this wonderful fanart](https://twitter.com/kokokoart/status/1135507462994505729), so please go and shower the artist with love.
> 
> i'm also on [tumblr](https://bonespockjim.tumblr.com/) and [twitter](https://twitter.com/ruffaloon)!
> 
> thank you so much for reading!


End file.
